


The Serpent Underneath

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Dark!Alana, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always been something off about Alana Bloom, like she's hiding a secret behind a plaster casting of a smile.  Bedelia Du Maurier regrets not realizing what it is at a more convenient time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Serpent Underneath

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Кажись цветком и будь змеей под ним](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401247) by [Teado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teado/pseuds/Teado)



> Shamelessly OOC but my heart beats for Dark!Alana so I had to write this.
> 
> Inspired by and loosely based off of [this](http://samiferist.tumblr.com/tagged/comorbidities-au) au in which Alana is the Chesapeake Ripper and Bedelia is a retired psychiatrist turned FBI consultant. Go check it out, because seriously, it's the best.

“You're him.”

It rides off her tongue, quiet as a ghost on the tail end of a gasp, before self-preservation can kick in on time to close the floodgates. Fear keeps her eyes on the plate in front of her – and _god knows_ what she just ate – but she forces her eyes up to gauge Alana's reaction. If she's lucky, her behavior will go unnoticed and she can slip out after dinner to contact Crawford. 

But Alana is a psychiatrist, same as her. She can read body language, she can sense fear. Probably taste it, too.

“Awful presumptuous,” Alana says, “Always treating the investigation like the Ripper is a man.”

There is a kindness to Alana's face, like she was born to nurture, to protect. Those soft blue eyes could save a drowning man with one sympathetic glance. Bedelia always spared some admiration for the strength in them, the way they shone with the sort of kindness that's hard to find anymore. They aren't soft now, though. They're like ice shards, ready to gut her and prepare her and serve her to the Bureau. 

 _I wonder if she would make me into a nice meal_ , Bedelia thinks, dangerously close to hysteria. _I wonder if I would be worth enough to her to be served to someone important._

And then, sickeningly enough, _I wonder if she would serve me to Abigail. To Hannibal or Will._

“I need to use the bathroom – ” 

“I think you should stay right where you are,” Alana says, and it sounds more like a suggestion than the threat it is. 

Bedelia freezes, a rabbit faced with a wolf. One finger remains resting on her butter knife. If Alana really is the Ripper, she's going to need more than some silverware to take her down. Reaching for the steak knife would to to obvious, but the fork is close to her right hand. . .

Abruptly, Alana stands up and moves around the table, the fabric of her shirt shifting with each casual step. Its the deep color of good red wine, with black and white lines contouring a simple pattern. A pattern reminiscent of scales. Snakeskin.

Alana isn't a wolf, she's a snake. A perfect predator designed to slip through the underbrush, a killer that strikes its pray before they even know she's there. Her fangs are concealed behind charming smiles and warm laughs, but they drip venom all the same. 

The predator closes in on her prey, perching on the corner of the table. And that's what gets to Bedelia, the way that Alana isn't particularly _refined_. She is incredibly intelligent and capable, but she's not distant or calculating in the way many other professionals in her field are. 

That just makes this even more unexpected, more terrifying. 

Fingernails – neatly trimmed short as to not leave evidence at a crime scene, or break when she gouges a man's eyes out – run down Bedelia's cheek. Perhaps the gesture is supposed to be calming, maybe even suggestive, but it just makes Bedelia feel like she's being sized up by a butcher.

“We're going to have to talk about this,” Alana says, lips curved and eyebrow quirked. She sounds like she's flirting. “Admittedly, I thought you might already know. Your reaction was bit disappointing, honestly. I expected more subtlety.”

_What?_

“Forgive me,” Bedelia mutters, trying to ground herself. “This information is a bit much to process.” 

“I bet you've encountered stranger in your time with the FBI.”

“You've been feeding _people_ to us,” Bedelia points out, and it's easier to say than she thought it would be. But then she realizes, “To Abigail.”

Alana laughs at that. “Don't you worry. Abigail is very special to me. I have never once done anything to put her in harm's way. She's damaged, but she has the potential to reclaim her life. I can make her into something great.” 

“God complex, Dr. Bloom?” Bedelia asks, kicking at thin ice. “You're not going to be able to pick up the shards of her life and rebuild them in your image. Your influence can only serve to harm her.”

“She doesn't know what you know,” Alana says, as if that negates the murders and cannibalism. “At any rate, I doubt she'd take the news as well as you have. Not yet, at least. She's too young, her psychological wounds are too fresh. I just hope she becomes more receptive to me as her recovery progresses.”

“You sound rather fond of her,” Bedelia observes. 

Alana laughs at that, the kind of comfortable hoot that wouldn't sound out of place in a bar or a PTA meeting. “That's because I am. Really.”

“And me?” Bedelia asks, sounding calmer than she feels. “Will you kill me here, just like that?”

Alana shifts her gaze to the floor like she's mulling that over. “I would prefer not to, unless you give me a reason to. I don't just kill _anyone_ who might know something about me that they shouldn't. That would just be excessive.”

“But you would kill to keep your secret from getting out,” Bedelia says.

Alana pauses again. She levels her with a crooked grin and a heavy stare. “You've always been tentative to pursue a relationship that extends beyond the realm of professionalism. I think we should change that.” 

That could mean _anything_ , and all of the possibilities run Bedelia's blood cold. But there is something there, thrumming gently under the current of fear. Bedelia is afraid, yes, but she is also curious. There's always been something about Alana, like she's not entirely what she seems. She's. . . Goofy. And funny, and compassionate, but she looks at crime scenes like she's standing in the Louvre.

Bedelia wants to stand a safe distance away and analyze Alana, find out how she pulled off all of the murders, understand her psychological state. But she's _not_ a safe distance away, she's standing in the snake's jaws. Alana is practically in her lap, smirking down at her like she wants to eat Bedelia up.

Bedelia is tempted to let her try, just to see what would happen.

Alana reaches down to pick up the steak knife and fork. As she cuts through the remains of some unknown man, she says, “I would like to be _friends_ with you.”

For once her voice slips out of it's kind sheath to show something dangerous. Bedelia doesn't need to ask what that means, she already knows. _I want to play with you. I want to rebuild you. I want to see what you can do._  

_I want to own you._

“Now,” Alana smiles, the facade of wholesome kindness back as she lifts the fork, “Eat up.”

Bedelia doesn't break eye contact out of fear as she leans in. She moves slowly, as if Alana will back off if she doesn't go fast enough. Her mouth closes around the meat, and she wants to run. The meal wasn't particularly fancy, it never is with Alana, but it's always delicious.

Every human being Bedelia's eaten has been delicious. She tries to keep the thought of human flesh out of her mind as she chews and swallows.

Alana finally breaks eye contact, glancing down at the plate with fondness, like she's proud. Bedelia stomach rocks in time with the mad drumming of her heart as Alana mutters, “Good girl.”

Suddenly, Alana reaches down and grabs the hand covering the knife. Bedelia wants to jerk away, wants to grip the knife tighter and drive it into Alana's thigh. But she doesn't, she just lets Alana draw it up to her face and place a gentle kiss on the knuckles. There is amusement in her eyes, perhaps flirtation, but nothing close to love.

“Now, was that so bad?”


End file.
